my horoscope said it would be a bad year
by the hikikomori life
Summary: Gokudera's working on the whole "becoming self-sufficient" thing. He really is.


_but mostly i feel like a little boy,  
>i'd rather feel pain than show fear.<em> 

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><p><strong>My horoscope said it would be a bad year.<strong> 

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><p>Saturday morning I get this call from Yamamoto while I'm in the middle of volume one of Stanley's <em>Enumerative Combinatorics<em>, and I just ignore it. But you know how there's some people out there who just can't take a fucking hint? Yeah, Yamamoto is one of them. On the fifth or sixth time when I actually pick up, he says to me Hey Gokudera, you wanna get some lunch? I yell Fuck no! into the mouthpiece, hang up and fling it across the room, but it just skids across the floor and starts ringing again. That persistent motherfucker - I'm telling you, some days I just cannot deal with his shit! I slam my book shut, which sends paper flying everywhere and I'm going to have to pick up that mess later but right now I just don't give a fuck. I close my eyes, lie on the tatami floor of my one-room flat, and meditate on becoming completely self-sufficient. You know, like Hibari - that fucking psycho. Sometimes all you want is to be alone, and Hibari doesn't seem to need anyone or anything, apart from his little Pokemon, that is. (Though don't ever let him hear me call them that, or I'll spend the rest of my very brief life begging for forgiveness.) I think I want to be like that. I never want to need anyone, ever.

It's not like I'm _lonely_ or anything, though, I'm totally okay with living alone - I couldn't stand living with Bianchi or something, and anyway it's hard to jerk off in the shower when someone else wants to use it. (It's the best place to squeeze one out, you know; totally mess-free as long as you don't clog the drain. The only side effect of that is sometimes I get a boner when it rains.) Speaking of jerking off, put this on a list of things that never fucking happened: one time the three of us were sleeping over at Tenth's, and we kind of... all had a wank together. For some reason the more people you have doing it together, the less gay it is, but Turf-Top had some _extreme_training to do and uh, nobody invited Hibari. So there we were, just the three of us, which is one dude away from being _totally_ gay, and you're supposed to keep your eyes shut while you're doing it, but that creep Yamamoto apparently forgot the rules because he was watching me the whole time - watching me jerk it like some kind of sicko! Except -

Except the thing is, I saw him looking at me because I was kinda looking at him, too. And this is something we never talked about, because what would you even say, right? _Sorry I got my rocks off looking at your o-face?_This is shit that you can never, ever say to anyone, okay, I would rather swallow hot coals than admit that I watched him come. Anyway, this is why it's better for me to live alone. I'm working on that whole being complete in and of myself thing, I don't need any fucking distractions.

So if I had to break it down, this is what I'd say my problem is: I'm bored, I'm restless, I need some kind of... _life solution_. Get a girlfriend, Bianchi would say. Fall in love. Just go away, stop bothering me with your adolescent bullshit! Alright, I say, alright, so I go out and get one, and then it's like, well, now what. This was back in high school, by the way, so pretty much all we did was go out and see movies together. After half a year I took her back to my place after one of these little movie dates and we fucked, and the whole time I was thinking, this is it?_This_ is what everyone's talking about? You wait sixteen or whatever years, you wrap your meat and then you stick it in a girl and move it in and out until you jizz. And now that I think about it, it was kinda rude, but there I was on top of her thinking to myself, well this isn't really all it's cracked up to be. So I shed my virginity and didn't even notice. Big fucking whoop. After a few years it becomes just another god damn chore. Like changing the oil in your car; every couple of weeks you pick up a girl and bone her just to make sure all your equipment's in working order. You don't even have to really be into it; just close your eyes and let instinct do the rest. Pass the time by factorizing large numbers or counting powers of two in your head, one for every thrust.

Slaves to biology, that's all we are. Take puberty for example - the years when hair starts to grow in exciting places. Like on your face! When I was fifteen I started having to shave. What a fucking pain in the ass _that_ was. Razors cost money, and you know what else does? The rent. Yamamoto said to me no problem, just use my spare razor, and I wanted to yell at him man, _fuck_ your spare razor! but all I ended up saying was, okay. Pathetic, right? My dad has villas over in Italy set up like fucking franchises all the way down the coast, and here I am in Japan with barely two cents to rub together. For all of five minutes I worked part-time at Takesushi, until it drove me fucking crazy to see him getting along so swimmingly with his dad. I hate my dad, but even more than I hate my dad, I hate that I'm like this. Every time it feels like maybe I've moved on, something happens - Bianchi or Shamal will say something, or I'll get a call from home, or sometimes all it takes to set me off is the sound of the piano somewhere in the night, and I'll remember it all and get angry and frustrated all over again. Sometimes I wish I'd never been born.

Some nights I wake up with blood all over my pillow, but these days don't think much of it anymore, it's been happening so long. You're getting nosebleeds because you're dehydrated, Bianchi used to say, drink some water! So I would, for about a week or so I'd drink so much water that I'd make myself sick, and then it'd become a pain and I'd stop. For the longest time this was a problem of mine, but if I knew how to take care of myself I would've stopped smoking years ago. I wake up with blood on my pillow, take my last pack of cigs and go outside to smoke, and all I can say is, shit never changes. Yamamoto once asked me, how does a middle schooler buy cigarettes, and I want to ask him, you think a kid who was getting into street fights in grade school wouldn't be able to figure out at age fourteen how to procure a couple of smokes? But whatever, it's all aboveboard now - I have a driver's license and everything, I don't have to go through those back channels any more. Besides, that's not something I ever want to tell Yamamoto about. Not now, not ever. This isn't unusual by any stretch of imagination; everyone has things they don't talk about. For example -

For example, Yamamoto doesn't have a mom. I mean, he probably had one at some point, unless he was a test-tube baby or something, but I guess she's dead? No one really knows, because he doesn't talk about it and anyway it's not really something that would come up in conversation. Hey Yamamoto, how's your dead mom doing? Still dead? Cool, just like mine, then. Guess we're in the same boat. Except we're not, because Yamamoto still has someone who loves him. To my dad, I'm just a reminder of a failed affair. A mistake that calls home every once in a while to ask for money. I'm the gift that keeps on giving! And you know, that's not even the worst thing about all of this. The worst thing is how all the bitterness and resentment and all the rest of it has filled up my heart and crowded out every good feeling, every good memory. Like my mom, for instance. After a while you don't even know what you feel, anymore. Do I love her, or just my memory of her, or is it the same thing? And in the end what the fuck does it matter what I think, anyway? I'm the bastard son, bastard born, born a bastard. Bianchi would get a kick out of _that_. She's never been one to pussyfoot around the whole illegitimacy thing. You're my brother, she'd say, that's all there is to it. Don't get me wrong, it takes a big person to accept someone like that. And I am not that guy. No one ever asks me how _I_ feel about it. Besides, that's easy for her to do. She's not the mongrel, the half-breed mafia brat. That's my cross to bear, and no one else's.

But, okay, look: I don't want to sound like some brat whining that nobody loves me. That's not what this is about, and anyway it's not true. I have Tenth, and Tenth will always have me, even if he doesn't know it. I've got his back. Before I met Tenth, 'family' was like the worst kind of swear word there was, for me. When you live on the streets for that long, you pick up a pretty spicy arsenal of curses, but that word was worse than any obscenity. Tenth changed all of that. Now I look at the family, and I feel kind of a sense of pride. This is something I helped build; this is something we built together. It's not my family, it's _ours_. Corny, sure, but it's all I have now, it's got to be enough. Like a bird, I pack my shit and fly south for the winter, but I always come home, in the end. Please, whoever's listening out there - let this be all I need. I think I could be content with that. 

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><p>Saturday afternoon I wake up with a start because some maniac is banging down my door. I have a doorbell but it doesn't matter, it never fucking matters because either Yamamoto's fingers are too fat to press it or his brain's too tiny to process that I would actually like him to use it, or both. Probably both. Let's just say that past events have not exactly instilled confidence in me when it comes to his reasoning capabilities.<p>

"Gokudera, are you home?"

"No," I yell back.

"You're sitting in there feeling sorry for yourself, aren't you?"

"Piss off!"

He goes quiet, and for like ten whole seconds I actually think he's left, and breathe a sigh of relief.

Then he starts yelling - loud enough so the whole complex can hear it - "Gokudera, I brought the condoms and lube like you asked for! I didn't have space in my bag for the toys, though, I hope that's okay!"

He's grinning like the idiot he is when I let him in.

"I really did bring condoms," he says, dumping his shit on the floor without asking.

"Just shut up, _shut_ your fucking mouth," I say, slamming the door shut behind him. "I am _so_ not in the mood."

"You haven't been in the mood for, like, a whole month! Use it or lose it, right? Haha!"

"Your dick is not going to atrophy if you don't use it."

"You never know."

"Then let's try it," I snap. "Abstain for a couple months and see if it withers right off, we can start introducing you to people as Yamamoto the dickless wonder and don't you fucking dare pick me up _put me down_ -" 

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><p>What's the word for when you hold two contradicting ideas in your head at the same time, and both of them are true? I forget. Forgetting is easier than thinking about it. I don't want this, but I do. Yamamoto's hands are warm; they feel good in the small of my back, on the insides of my thighs. I take one step forward, then two steps back. Yamamoto tastes like mouthwash and slightly stale beer and I am not self-contained, I'm not even fucking close. I fuck up again and again and I keep coming back for more. If I had a motto, it would be <em>I never learn<em>. With these fingers I trace the angle of his jaw, tickle the soles of his feet to make him laugh, and then I sink into him like I'm finally going home. It's been a while. He hisses something wordless, inarticulate against the side of my face and I kiss him to shut him up, because I don't want to hear it, I don't want to know. Maybe if I just keep my eyes shut forever, I'll never have to deal with what I'm doing.

"Something bothering you?" says Yamamoto, afterwards, lazily, with one arm thrown over my chest, a dead weight. It's stifling. I watch the ceiling fan trace spirals in the air, and at length, I say,

"Move. I can't breathe."

"Alright, alright."

He moves his arm. The ceiling fan spins, dust comes down like a fine mist, and I think to myself I really need to clean this fucking room. But that's just one of those things you tell yourself every once in a while, just to make yourself feel better. I'm feeling sick, I'll work out tomorrow. I'll stop smoking tomorrow. I'll man the fuck up and stop sleeping with Yamamoto tomorrow. And just like New Year's resolutions, these things never work out. You say them once and toss 'em by the side of the road like so much junk. Honestly I don't even know how this happened. The first time was years ago, and ever since then we've been doing the same shit, making the same stupid mistakes. He kisses me, stubble scraping over my cheek and jaw. Shit stings; it makes my eyes water.

"Quit it."

"Why?" he says, huffing laughter across my ear. "You like it." I take a half-hearted swipe at him, and miss. Damn post-orgasmic bliss sapping all the strength out of me. He rolls over to get away, taking half the covers with him, but I don't care. It's warm in my room; it smells like sweat and sex, Yamamoto's sweat and sex with Yamamoto and I just don't care. I'm through caring. You kinda have to stop caring after a while, or you'll go batshit insane. It doesn't matter if I'm gay or "Yamamosexual" or just a confused little shit. No man is an island. I don't want this, but maybe, just maybe, I need it. Life's funny like that sometimes. You fight something all your life when what you're really doing is falling into it. Is this what they call denial? Whatever, man, whatever. I'm through thinking about this, too.

For a couple of minutes we lie side by side and stare at the ceiling, not saying anything at all. I'm nearly drifting off to sleep when he reaches over and slides his fingers through mine, tugging my hand over to hold it to his chest. Under my palm I can feel his heartbeat, even and slow, reliable just like how he is. It makes me want to hit him.

"My dad asked you to come over for dinner," he says, calmly, eyes fixed on the ceiling, as though he is talking to someone far, far away. That's me he's talking to, I realize, me. An arm's length away, but hearts light years apart. I suck in a breath, let it out slow. This time for sure, I'll tear him down, I'll put an end to this. This last time, I'll -

My mouth has a different idea. "... Sure," it answers, and when he smiles at me, my treacherous heart skips a beat. "Why the hell not." No excuses. Any idiot on the street could've seen this coming. Except me, because I'm no fool. I just wish someone had told me. How's this for a prediction: five years on and nothing changes, nothing is learnt. Every night after we do it I lie there on the sweaty futon with a hand curled into Yamamoto's heart, and nothing is fixed, but none of it matters. What have I been fighting? My father? My family? My own nature? No, that doesn't matter either. Here are the patterns we repeat. Is this a statistically significant outcome? I could've ended up in anyone's bed, but instead he ends up in mine. All those people out there waiting for me - a finite number, to be sure, but still not trivial in any sense of the word. This can't be my optimal solution. Of all the people in the world, why'd it have to be _you_?

"... Did you say something, Gokudera?"

This is nothing I can't handle. On my own, or otherwise. "No," I tell him, and simply look away.

**fin.**


End file.
